


Switch

by Menirva



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Brainwashing, Captivity, Dubious Consent, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One man's past is another man's future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switch

"It's not my name!" He nearly screams it out as his hands slam into the metal poles, reopening barely scabbed over wounds on his palms. Blood slicks over the unforgiving metal and anger bubbles up in him when she doesn't get angry in return, when she just looks as patient with him as she always does.

"It is your name, and when you learn it you will be ready to rise with me, with your brothers." She touches the bars of the cell, with no fear that he will lash out at her more then verbally. He learned that lesson fast enough. There are only a couple of things that will earn him a physical reprimand and that's one of them.

He spits at her instead. It's childish and he knows it, but at the moment it feels like the only thing he has. She laughs at him and he feels his cheeks flush red with anger when she leaves him alone in the cage.

In the dark. It creeps over his skin at the creak of the heavy door closing. The cage is cold, freezing, and he's practically naked in it. He feels like an animal, maybe he's supposed to. Maybe they're trying to rob everything from him. They're well on their way. He'd already watched them burn his city to the ground. Had been one of the few left and when he'd attacked them, a sharpened spike of metal in his hand, the only weapon he could find in the burned out ashes of the city, he'd been caught up easily.

But not killed. It would have been too kind. Talia liked his fire. The league saw something in him. Bane... He wanted him to join.

They don't hurt him. Don't torture him beyond the cold, the hours in the dark, but it's enough. It's enough to make his mind play tricks on him, enough for every shadow in the room to feel like it's moving, for his bones to ache as he curls on the cold floor.

It's enough to make him want them there. The light they bring, the fire they light in the small brazier on their visits that warms the air.

His hair is shorn short. It's cleaner, neater since he won't be let out to wash it. The woman teases that it makes his ears stick out and Talia reaches through the bars touches them. He jerks away. It tickles and his shoulders hunch up. Bane is there today and he only hums in quiet amusement. They think they are being playful and disgust roils up in his stomach, making the oats they are feeding him taste like bile on his tongue. The name they have given them falls from Bane's mouth with a trace of affection and his recoils more. How they ever found it out he'll never know.

“It's not my name.” He hisses it out and dumps his oats on the floor. Another childish move and he feels a pang of guilt for wasting food. How often had he gone to bed with an empty belly as a child? But it feels like petulance is the only weapon he has against them.

“It will be.” Talia answers calmly. His gut clenches with regret when she calmly puts out the fire and they leave without another word. His punishment to be condemned to the shadows again until he feels like they consume him.

He behaves.

It's begrudgingly done. He hates himself for it, but he's a survivor. He pretends to listen to them when they talk about justice, about why they condemned his city to die. They're crazy. That's all he learns from the talks. It's all he wants to learn. But pretending to listen gains him favors. A blanket. It's warm and he wraps it around his body at all times. 

Pretending to listen means that not every word can be filtered out. That not everything can be blocked. He doesn't want the ideas that they plant in his head. He knows who he is. He knows. He won't be what they want him to be. He can't. When he's finally, finally let out of the cage he hunches with the blanket over his shoulders as he stares out into the snow. How did he even get here from the city? How long has it been?

“Almost a year.”

He's struck by the answer, not even realizing he'd asked it out loud. A year in the dark, with them whispering in his ear, telling him he's theirs, that he's home. He doesn't speak for a long time, jumping when Bane's hand rests on his shoulder.

“Come inside.” The name is on his tongue again and he shrugs it off, but not his touch. One year and his skin is hungry for touch.

“It's not my name.” His whispers it, but it lacks the conviction it once did. It continues to do so as Bane whispers it into his ear as he touches him. His wide hands are scorching brands, every calloused caress a claim that lights his skin on fire. He bucks and twists into the touch, bites his lip and keens, spilling so quickly that he mumbles out in embarrassment. Bane only chuckles and waits for him to recover before moving on, before moving in. He's deep, deep enough to push away the shadows and as he fucks into him drives pants and noises of pleasure from his lungs, his core, he comes for him again with a bitten out whimper as he feels warmth, as he hears those claiming words, that name.

It's not his name. Is it? He is breathless as Bane wipes him clean. Another question he wasn't aware he had said out loud, for Bane's thumb brushes his temple and when he whispers in the dark it drives away all of the other shadows.

“It will be.”

Barsad tilts his head as he sits cleaning his rifle, hearing the commotion outside. He sets his work aside and goes to it, watches as a boy is dragged in, spitting with rage and kicking at the men who hold him. He is a hellion and Barsad snaps to his feet, walking to Bane, not asking, there is no need. Bane only tips his head at him.

“He has fire in him.” 

Barsad only nods, curious. When the other's leave he hears the banging of the cell bars in a room ignored by the rest of the temple. He cannot resist the call and he is soon pushing the heavy door, looking at the boy in the cage, brown angry eyes stare at him but Barsad only steps closer.

He leans forward, face pressed nearly against the bars of the cell, an echo, a photo negative of what once was.

“They tell me you are called Robin.” He whispers to the boy as his long fingers touch the bars, the scars on the palms of his hand match the rough grating of it.

“That's not my name!” The boy snarls out at him and Barsad's lips twist grimly as he taps the cell bars. Knowing. Remembering.

“It will be.”


End file.
